Lantern's Glow

Whisper ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Browbow bolts flew past, into the trees and the soil, or simply gone into the darkness. His persuitor, hot on his heels, was relentless in their onslaught. And he didn't understand. Even as they shouted after him, "monster, murderer, fiend", he just did not understand. He had done nothing wrong... But still, the bolts flew, scraping his cheek right as he dared glance back. A desire to melt into the darkness and disappear welled up, but for as strong as the desire burned, like instinct, he simply could not know how, or even grasp that he could at all. He could only run, past the branches that clawed at his fur and trough the shallow puddles into which his paws sank away. His breath was heavy, the air burning in his lungs, his body aching. But stopping was death... Just as he was beginning to give up, he saw it. A golden glow in the night, distant yet true. A campfire, perhaps. Or a homestead, where perhaps kind souls could help him. Hope flickered up, and with hope came a second wind. He picked up the pace, dashing for the light, hoping that whatever would be out there would save him. "HELP! HELP ME!" he called out between gasping breaths, pleading to be heard. But for as mighty as his second wind was, hope can be a tunnel vision, can make a soul reckless... He came close enough to identify the light as a lantern hung outside an old tavern, guiding wanderers home. And he found himself running for the light, down the old dirt road. But as he ran for it, he moved in a straight line. His persuiter lined up the shot, took a steady breath, and... Sudden, piercing pain. It sank into his back, send him staggering from the momentum. He looked down and saw the bolt sticking out trough his chest. Not a center shot, but one of his lungs was down. He stagged forward, tried not to fall, to regain his speed. Another bolt struck. Lower, but closer to the spine, and more than enough to push him over. He hit the dirt hard, wheezed, coughed, tasted blood. His vision was blurry as he glanced to the light ahead, tried to call but found no voice. All he heard was the steady drum of heavy boots, before one was painfully placed on his back. A deep chuckle, his persuitor right on top. He heard the sound of metal scraping, looking up in time to see the blade raised above him, ready to strike down. "I'll see you in hell." He spoke with a smirk, before plunging...

A clash. Metal meets metal as sparks fly. A fluid motion swung the blade aside, nearly disarming it, and forced the persuitor to back off lest they be pierced. Whisper glanced up as the new stranger stepped over him, taking a protective position. He couldn't see the face, but he saw a lantern hung from the stranger's hip, swaying gently. It was old and worn, but sturdy, the flame safely contained even as the lantern swayed during action. Simple clothes gave way for tight muscle and autumn coloured fur.

The persuitor scoffed. "Step aside, old man. That fiend is mine to slay!"

The persuitor, unphased, merely glanced down to Whisper. A green glint from his eyes shone as the lantern light caught it. There was no malice, or anger, or any strong emotion. Just calm. Focus. The stranger looked at him, at his wide pink eyes, tears heavy, breath quick, red-m no, black blood dripping. He showed no signs of noticing, turning back to the persuitor, speaking in a low voice, warm yet rusted, steady and stern. "Fiends don't cry."

The persuitor scoffed, dashed forward. Metal hit metal, clashing, viscious as the fangs of a beast. Whisper tried to follow, but he couldn't, his mind was fading. Everything grew blurry, and then dark, with only a single golden dot of lantern light dancing before him. And then, nothing.

Everything ached when Whisper opened his eyes, first slowly, but then quick as he shot up. Before he could identify his surroundings, a hand was on him, pushing him back down. "Easy, easy. You're safe." A steady voice spoke, familiar, welcome. Whisper looked over, looking his savior in the eyes. Old enough to be a veteran, but far from elderly and frail. Or perhaps this man would never grow frail, would never permit himself. "Slow breaths." he said, making Whisper realize he was breathing fast. He was breathing- he was alive. He took some slow breaths, forching himself to stop. He glanced around. An old room, a bit dusty, but cozy, homely in a way taverns always managed to be. Heavy blankets stacked on his bed, thick wool to keep him warm. He needed it, he felt cold... At the night stand, right by him, was that golden light. Familiar as the man's voice, safe. He relaxed, and as he did, the man pushed him back down into the bed. "You need your rest." He spoke, smiling faintly. Whisper nodded, felt it. He was exhausted, and now that he was safe, he craved to give in. It was like he was sinking into the bed, like he couldn't move if he wanted to. But something came to mind, something worth fighting his eyes open again. "What's your name?" he croaked, soft, pathetic, nearly a whisper. The stranger paused, smiled. "Breaze, my name is Breaze." He answered as he tucked in the stranger, kept him safe and warm. "And yours?" "Whisper.." The word barely escaped the young 'cet's voice before sleep took him, everything fading back into darkness, but comfortingly so. A welcome darkness, guided by lantern light.

Breaze was glad the boy was okay. Questions could wait, they could wait a lifetime for all he cared. He whiped the boys mane away from his face, made sure he was tucked in proper and would be warm despite the bloodloss, listened for the steady breathing, and finally got up. He considered turning off the light, but chose to dim it instead. A small flicker of a flame, but more than enough to not be lost. He headed for the door, looked back one last time, smiled, whispered "goodnight" and closed the door.